


devote reddamus

by jenna221b



Series: Good Omens Prompts [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (sometimes), 6000 Years of Love (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Christmas, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Developing Relationship, Ficlet Collection, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, One Shot Collection, POV Alternating, Snippets, Winter, Winter Omens, Winter Omens 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 10,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27824494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna221b/pseuds/jenna221b
Summary: Besides, while the air is bitterly cold, it’s still refreshing. As Crowley breathes it in, he finds that it brings a clarity to his thoughts, things he always wants to remember about tonight: the flush to Aziraphale’s cheeks; their shared little glances; how their arms keep brushing together in a feigned, accidental rhythm.*Daily ficlets throughout December.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Prompts [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840228
Comments: 306
Kudos: 146





	1. Cold hands (1800)

They’re ostensibly walking back to the bookshop, but it’s a scenic, meandering route; a silent acknowledgement that they don’t want the night to end just yet.

Besides, while the air is bitterly cold, it’s still refreshing. As Crowley breathes it in, he finds that it brings a clarity to his thoughts, things he always wants to remember about tonight: the flush to Aziraphale’s cheeks; their shared little glances; how their arms keep brushing together in a feigned, accidental rhythm.

Above all, Crowley wants to remember the way Aziraphale had laughed heartily at their ridiculous toasts, to the bookshop’s worst monthly sales so far.

“Isn’t it _shameful?_ ” he had said through giggles, a joyful pantomime.

The wind picks up, whistling through the streets, and Crowley can’t stop a shiver.

Aziraphale makes a murmured little sound, equal parts affectionate and surprised. He sways slightly as he turns to look at Crowley. “Goodness, dear boy, are you cold? I can’t feel it at all.”

Crowley silently tells the cobblestones to behave themselves, forbidding them from tripping up any errant angels. Out loud, he tuts through a grin. “Nah, that’s just the drink talking. Here, see.”

He does it quickly, before he can overthink it. Letting the merriment of the night spur him on, he leans to the side, and brushes the back of his hand against Aziraphale’s cheek.

Aziraphale gasps. But, rather than darting away, he raises his arm, and takes Crowley’s hand within his own. As Crowley focuses on not grinding to a halt like a besotted fool, he knows that here is another thing worth treasuring: the warmth of Aziraphale’s fleeting touch.

“It must be true, then,” Aziraphale says in an over-the-top whisper, like he’s smiling too much to truly be quiet.

“Hmm? What is?”

Aziraphale pats Crowley’s hand before letting go, while his smile quirks into something mischievous, but still overwhelmingly genuine. “Cold hands, warm heart.”

A (gentle) elbow to the ribs. “You can piss right off,” Crowley says. “Drink’s gone straight to your head, angel, I can tell you that for free.”

It’s a futile protest, of course. Crowley knows he just sounds very fond, and very much in love.


	2. Card (1941)

The envelope is half-hidden underneath the rug. Aziraphale almost misses it while he’s locking up the shop. It’s only when he absentmindedly kicks the rug corner back with his shoe that he spots it, and he sighs in muted exasperation.

“Well, hello,” he says, and picks up the envelope. “Have you been dropped by some—?”

There is his name, in copperplate script.

The handwriting is unmistakable, but distant, like he’s holding some fragile ancient artefact. And, oh dear, perhaps he should… sit down, yes.

Aziraphale knows he’s being stupidly sentimental, really, but he can’t help it. The night of the church, and the bomb (and the _books_ ) still feels somewhat like a dream, the edges already turned hazy with his incredulity, his delight. But, here it is, a physical reminder that the night was real, that Crowley is still _here_.

Aziraphale fetches his letter opener. The glint of it catches in the light—silver, shaped rather like a sword—and he recalls Crowley’s reaction to it, back when Aziraphale was loath to break wax seals. Crowley had brandished it as if in a duel, then said with a wink, “Not giving this one away, too, are you?”

With a swift flick of the wrist, Aziraphale cuts through the envelope, and pulls out a card. The design is horrifically (wonderfully) tacky: a Christmas scene with a hearth and mantelpiece in a clash of bright, competing colours. Aziraphale lets out a very indelicate snort at an arrow ruining the display, pointing to the angel at the top of the tree, with a declaration: _YOU_.

He opens the card, and reads the simple inscription inside: _Happy Christmas, angel_. And, even though this is the first written correspondence he’s seen in decades (he pushes back the memory of that damned scrap of paper, the untidiest, most desperate writing he’d ever seen), Aziraphale revels in still being able to read _Crowley_ : the little slant to the letters that gives away his tiredness; the way the tail of his _g_ elegantly flicks up into the _e_ ; the remnants of a miracle vanishing away ink smudges.

Aziraphale smiles, and allows himself one long moment to trace the handwriting with his finger.

Then, he nods. “Right, then.”

He sets the card on his desk, and picks up a pen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so looking forward to having fun with these for the rest of the month, I hope you enjoy! More info [here](https://jenna221b.tumblr.com/post/635955168202178560/ive-decided-to-try-and-post-a-daily-ficlet) if you'd like a prompt of your own <3


	3. Stockings & fireplace (1811)

“Honestly,” Aziraphale tuts, but he’s laughing all the same. In his palm rests a gold button, snow already melting off the shiny surface. “You needn’t have bothered, Crowley.”  


“Nope,” Crowley says. He tries to dust snow surreptitiously off his own clothes, does his best to ignore that his fingers are too numb with cold for a miracle. “And hear you complain about that for the next century?” He claps the back of his hand to his forehead, and plaintively cries, “Oh, this waistcoat will never be the _same!_ ”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, ha ha. Well, it was...” He smirks. “Jolly good of you to give me a show while you were at it.”

_Nice little dodge of the thank you._

”Show?” Crowley scoffs. “Don’t you mean, my overwhelmingly dexterous skills at—” 

“Heavens, no. I was rather referring to your splendid impression of an overgrown magpie.”

Crowley deliberately squawks in indignation, just so Aziraphale laughs again. “I did no such bloody—”

“Take off your socks, there’s a dear. You’re dripping all over the floor.”

“Okay, okay—you’ve got an absolute cheek—”

”Oh, I don’t think so, not if it’s true! Positively _leaping_ into a bank of snow? Going to extraordinary lengths for a little shiny thing, it all fits.” 

For once, Crowley lets the teasing pass without comment, suddenly struck at the sight of Aziraphale placing his socks to dry above the fire, painstakingly shaking them out so they don’t crease. Still chattering on, he does it with the air of someone who has done this for years, a quiet domestic certainty. 

His chest abruptly warm, Crowley watches, and knows that this act feels somehow more caring than any miracle ever could.


	4. Robin (537 A.D.)

Crowley snaps a twig, and half-heartedly throws it into the fire. “Angel,” he says, and Aziraphale has to stop himself from admiring how the glowing flames dance across his face. “We make a pair of awful knights.”

Aziraphale glances towards their discarded armour. “Speak for yourself,” he sniffs, with as much holier-than-thou qualities as he can muster (which is not a lot, especially when he’s stuck in a deucedly cold forest. He really must request—no, demand—proper lodgings next time).

“Oh, come off it.” The snap of another twig. “Who would want to slog away here?” Crowley’s voice rises in a weak sort of wheedling. Aziraphale wonders if this is his authentic tempting tone, because _honestly_. It needs some work. “C’mon, angel, I know you like your home comforts—”

“The devil makes work for idle hands.”

Crowley wrinkles his nose. “Nah, too much bother. And, anyway, I—” He tilts his head. “D’you hear that?”

“Crowley, I won’t be distracted from—”

“No, really!” Crowley raises a finger to his lips, and then Aziraphale does hear it: a frantic warbling sound.

The source is soon made clear when an irate little bird flies very near Crowley’s face—a robin, Aziraphale realises, its red breast puffed up in anger.

“For Satan’s—what’s _your_ problem, then?” Crowley says, ducking his head.

“They’re very territorial, you know.” Aziraphale gestures to Crowley’s hair, and tries not to laugh. “Perhaps it thinks you’re one of them.”

“Oh, you’re _hilarious_ —ow!” Crowley draws his hand against his chest, staring as the robin hops across the leaves littering the ground. The racket from such a tiny creature is impressive. “Persistent little thing, aren’t you?” Crowley murmurs.

His voice sounds so soft that Aziraphale has to look away to hide a smile. He turns back to the sound of rustling leaves, and Crowley saying, “Ah, I see.” And, suddenly, he’s sitting right next to Aziraphale.

“What on earth—?”

“Budge up, would you?”

Crowley nods at the forest floor. Aziraphale spots that some of the leaves are overturned, revealing a little depression in the ground next to where Crowley had been sitting. The robin sits, looking much less agitated than before.

“I was trespassing. There’s a nest, over there,” Crowley says in an undertone. Aziraphale could tell him that there’s no need to speak quietly; it’s not like the robin can understand… but, well. It’s rather endearing.

“Bringing dissent and discord wherever you go, I see,” Aziraphale says instead.

As Crowley chuckles, there’s a fleeting shimmer in the air. Aziraphale catches snatches of meaning before it’s lost to the night: _Safety; warmth; plentiful food._ The robin chirps in contentment. Crowley smiles.

If he didn’t know any better, Aziraphale would say he just witnessed a blessing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy friday, hope you have a lovely weekend! <3


	5. Seven o’clock News/Silent Night (1966)

_Silent night._

‘Police were made aware of a disturbance—’

_Holy night._

You want the world to stand still

to pretend

_all is calm, all is_

‘—in the early hours of Saturday morning. Calls from concerned residents—’

ignore that he hides his eyes from you most days

and when you catch a glimpse, they are no longer

_bright._

‘—prompted an investigation. However, the only damage found—’

This behaviour is careless.

‘—was a smashed window in the local church.’

(He must be desperate).

A tartan flask rests

on the mantelpiece (so you can’t avoid it).

you will give it to him in the new year

a sick resolution.

_Sleep in heavenly peace._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> partly inspired by [7 o'clock News/Silent Night by Simon and Garfunkel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JkJlmYwMgRM)


	6. O Little Town (2001)

Crowley is left to wander around the market square, whilst Aziraphale makes a beeline for the confectionery shop tucked away in the corner. He can hardly complain about being left outside; it’s a bright winter’s day, one where the sun’s rays are still properly warm if caught at the right angle.

Crowley soon finds an empty bench in just the right place, and savours the temporary sunspot. A buzz of chatter and excitement drifts over: a group of schoolchildren, being shepherded across to the centre of the square. It takes a couple of moments for Crowley to realise why they aren’t in uniform, a fair few dressed in white robes, their heads adorned with golden tinsel.

He allows himself a little smile. A demon watching the Nativity. It might not be ineffable, but it’s certainly something.

A quiet humming, the rustle of a carrier bag. Crowley glances to the side, just as Aziraphale sits down next to him.

“Successful?” Crowley asks, voice low.

Aziraphale nods. “They had that gingerbread fudge you’re so fond of.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Crowley lies.

But, Aziraphale doesn’t take the opportunity to tease back. He’s looking at the Nativity, an odd, not-quite smile on his face. Crowley privately likens it to a celebrity seeing an awkward photo of themselves.

“They’ve taken some artistic liberties with the source material.”

“They’re five years old, Aziraphale.”

There’s a murmur of disturbance in the audience—a child arriving late, looking like the world’s most reluctant angel, shuffling sheepishly into their spot.

Crowley nudges Aziraphale’s knee. “Actually, I think it’s very authentic.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” Aziraphale warns, although the tell-tale quaver in his voice suggests it’s too late for that. “I don’t want a mob of parents after us.”

“The car will outrun them all.” Crowley makes to stand, but is stopped by Aziraphale placing a hand on his wrist.

“Oh, not just yet,” Aziraphale says faintly. “Let’s stay for a little while longer.”

He gives another odd smile, and Crowley can’t quite place its meaning. It reminds him slightly of what Aziraphale had been like that morning, pointing out the advertisement of the market in the newspaper.

“Well, it’s almost Christmas,” Aziraphale had said, and hadn’t even offered any sort of excuse to do with ‘work.’

(Both their sides have been quiet for a spell. Crowley suspects that they should be at least slightly worried about this, but he doesn’t want to be, not when they can pretend that day trips to quaint towns and villages are all they have to be getting on with).

Crowley sidles closer on the bench. He closes his eyes and, for one moment, imagines that they are just people. Nothing more, nothing less.

“We’ll stay as long as you like, angel.”


	7. Sweet almonds (1525)

Aziraphale could say it’s just the charms of the night, or the way the candlelight illuminates Crowley’s hair that sets his heart (his fragile, foolish heart), racing, that alights the desire to cross the divide, and whisper into Crowley’s mouth, _“I want a painting of you. Just like this.”_

(He would want it regardless. He wishes he was brave enough).

Aziraphale reaches for the decanter and glass, attempts an offhand air. “Have you heard they’re making a new drink here?”

Crowley takes his time answering. He’s blinking slowly, but he doesn’t look sleepy. _Do you feel it, too,_ Aziraphale thinks, _this pull between us?_

“Oh?” Crowley says. The warmth of his hand drifts closer to Aziraphale’s knee, the ghostly impression of a touch.

“Well, I… might have given them a bit of a nudge, so to speak.” Aziraphale swallows. “I think you’d like it.” _(I made it for you)._

Crowley’s lips curve into a languorous smile. “Go on, then.”

Aziraphale pours out a glass, and feels his breathing momentarily stop when their fingers overlap.

Crowley drinks. Aziraphale watches his throat move ever so slightly, the brief appearance of his tongue running across his lips. Then, Crowley hums, and Aziraphale can somehow feel the sound reverberate deep within his own chest.

“A bit bitter,” Crowley murmurs.

“O-oh.” Aziraphale tries to school his face so it’s not painted in obvious disappointment. “I-I’ll be sure to alter—”

His voice falls as Crowley’s hand moves onto his knee.

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it.” Crowley raises the glass in the little space between them. “You should try some, too, angel.”

But, he doesn’t hand the glass over. A silence takes root, and grows, but Aziraphale no longer feels an anxious urge to break it.

Slowly, slowly, Crowley tilts the glass to his mouth once more. The drink wets his lips, and they glisten in the candlelight. Aziraphale catches the glorious moment his pupils dilate, shifting into something more serpentine, and, _oh, yes_ , his heart sings, _he wants me to kiss him_.

Aziraphale moves forward, tastes that edge of bitterness on Crowley’s lips, kisses the corners of his mouth, seeks out the sweet almonds on Crowley’s tongue, and, _oh, oh_ —

 _Lord forgive me, I want him so_.

 _No_ , his heart confides. _Forgiveness is not needed. Never for this_.

They part, Aziraphale breathless in reverence.

“I… I think you should have some more,” Aziraphale whispers.

A delighted giggle. And then, he feels the returned heat of Crowley’s mouth, and tastes the irreplaceable sweetness of shared laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'According to legend, In 1525, Bernardino Luini, one of Leonardo da Vinci’s pupils, was commissioned to paint the sanctuary of a church in Saronno, Italy and needed a model to portray the Madonna, the patron saint of the church. He eventually happened upon a young widowed innkeeper, who became his inspiration (and perhaps even more…) To show her gratitude, the woman wanted to give Luini a gift but lacked the money, so she steeped apricot kernels in brandy and presented him the resulting liqueur.' ([x](https://fleurtyherald.wordpress.com/2018/02/05/amaretto-from-1525/))


	8. Frost (1861)

Crowley jumps at the sound of persistent knocking. Raising his head from the train window, he half-expects to see an annoyed porter (somehow ending up in a reserved carriage _would_ be just his luck), but instead, it’s Aziraphale, hesitantly waving behind the glass.

And then, in the blink of an eye, he disappears amongst the clouds of steam. There’s a piercing whistle, the lurch of the train moving forward, and Aziraphale reappears, sliding open the compartment door with a huff.

“That was fortuitous timing!”

Crowley wants to ask, “How did you find me?” But, as the words listlessly crawl up his throat, Aziraphale answers the silent question. Sitting in the opposite seat in a flurry of movement, the angel nods at the window with an affectionate smile.

“My dear, did you know yours is the only window with patterns in the frost?”

Crowley glances to the side, and finds Aziraphale is quite right. There are unnatural, lacklustre silver spirals decorating the window. Crowley banishes them with an agitated flick of the wrist.

“Didn’t mean to,” he says, jaw tight. “Must’ve been distracted.”

“Yes, I daresay you have been.” Aziraphale says it lightly enough, but his smile is fading, slipping into shades of concern. “It’s not like you to go so long without a visit—”

The door screeches open, revealing a couple that look far too enamoured to notice that the compartment is occupied.

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale says coldly.

The pair blush, trip over apologies, and hastily shut the door again. Aziraphale tuts, but Crowley can tell that it’s just for show, that he’s grasping for whatever rapidly depleting nerve he had when boarding the train.

“Crowley, you’d—you’d tell me if…” His fingers twist together in an anxious rhythm. “If there was anything—?”

Crowley saves him from continuing. “Yes,” he says, and puts all his energy into making it sound reassuring. He lets his head fall back against the window, forces back frost creeping up, up, up, and thinks: _eventually_.


	9. Ballet (1895)

He had heard whispers, of course—rumours of a changed ending, a happier ending. But, as the orchestra swells, and Odette and the Prince take their final bows amongst the ‘swans’, Aziraphale can’t help but feel sorely cheated. He does not clap, for once not caring one whit for grace and decorum.

He rises from his seat, but doesn’t join the standing ovation, instead storming out of the theatre; all while pretending that the surge of grief and anger is merely for the performance he has just watched.

Reunited in death, _indeed_. Why is happiness only given after such a cost, such needless suffering? Why should they have to settle, to endure such pain, for the uncertain promise of… of…

He wraps his coat tighter around himself, the momentum of fury stalling in the shock of cold air. Well. There is one thing of which he is certain: he fails to see how this ending is a happy one.

Walking down cobbled streets, Aziraphale mourns the loss of optimism he had felt, however dim, before the show had begun. He had thought that, perhaps… in breaking habits, leaving London, he would stumble across a flash of red, and turn and—oh, it would be like those absurdly simple days when they’d meet by chance, all across the globe; two magnetic poles irresistibly drawn to one another, so often that surely it must mean _something_ —

Aziraphale sighs, and feels a dying ember of hope twist in his chest. These are changed times.

_How many more years, you foolish angel, will it take for you to accept that?_


	10. Lights (1954)

Stuck in a traffic jam down Regent Street, a streak of gold flits by the edge of Crowley’s vision. He looks up to follow it, and sees Aziraphale crossing the road, walking right in front of the Bentley—he’s still wearing that hat from the forties, Crowley notes with a smile. 

Crowley raps on the passenger window, but Aziraphale continues down the pavement, oblivious. So, surely the most logical (most ridiculous) thing to do next would be to open the car door, and whistle.

Aziraphale starts at the noise, and turns around.

“Need a lift, angel?” Crowley shouts across.

Aziraphale shakes his head with a radiant smile. He hurries over to the car, and leans in, one hand lingering on the door.

“How very kind, my dear,” he says, both wry and affectionate. It’s said in a tone Crowley is beginning to recognise as meaning _‘you’re showing off with your car, but I must confess, I do rather enjoy it.’_ “However, I’m afraid I was walking for a reason.”

“Reason being?”

“You haven’t heard—oh, they’re turning on the Christmas lights, Crowley!” He glances up, and down the street behind them. “Very soon, I should think.”

Crowley mulls it over. “C’mon,” he says, and nods at the passenger seat. “You’ll get the best view in London, this way.”

“In _here?_ ” Aziraphale says, but Crowley can tell his dubiousness is only playful.

“Well, if you’d rather be stuck in a crowd of _people_ , then…”

“Perish the thought,” Aziraphale laughs. He climbs in, and shuts the door with a decisive clunk.

Crowley clicks his fingers. The queue of traffic seems to melt around them, leaving the Bentley with more than enough room to drive unimpeded. For the first time in his life, Crowley drives at a truly glacial pace, and even though there’s still the clamour of people outside, it feels suddenly like the streets have quietly unfurled just for them alone.

“Ah! My,” Aziraphale says, in genuine surprise. “How clever of you to—”

All at once, the world is illuminated, in glorious golds and silvers. Aziraphale gasps, and shifts in his seat to get a closer look. Crowley finds he doesn’t need to do anything of the sort, not when he can follow the little sparks of light reflecting in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“ _Oh_ , aren’t they pretty?” Aziraphale breathes.

Crowley smiles. “Yes,” he says, not looking away, and so he catches the moment when Aziraphale’s expression turns more thoughtful, a little tinge of something bittersweet.

“The streets were dark for so long,” Aziraphale murmurs, as if to himself. And then, almost hushed: “I’m…so very glad you’re here.”

Crowley silently ensures that the miracle will hold for the rest of the evening. And, no, they don’t say thank you, but the gentle hand covering Crowley’s on the steering wheel says more than enough.


	11. Tinsel (2008)

As the first winter of the Antichrist being on earth approaches, Aziraphale soon finds something much more pressing to complain about.

“Oh, Lord,” he says, three glasses into a bottle of wine. “ _Christmas_.”

“Happens every year,” Crowley points out, a fair few glasses ahead.

“No, no, I mean…” Aziraphale gestures around the shop, and grimaces. “Last minute shoppers—always so damned difficult to stop them from _buying_ anything.”

“Don’ take this th’wrong way, angel, but doesn’t the lack of…eh, well, _any_ organisation put them off?”

“Regrettably not.” Aziraphale pouts. “To be quite honest, I fear they think it’s rather _charming_.”

Crowley reaches down, and strokes a floorboard in a fond sort of way. “You need a fuck off tree, really,” he says sagely.

In a list of ‘the most ridiculous things a supernatural entity has said, demonic or angelic or otherwise’, this does not even make the top ten. Nevertheless, Aziraphale snorts and says, “I _beg_ your pardon?”

“A fuck off tree, y’know, one that’ll make ‘em think if they so much as step inside, they’re going to be trapped forever in its thorny—er, branchy?—clutches.”

“You have such a way with words, darling,” Aziraphale replies, and decides that the endearment is allowed so long as it’s both drunken and sarcastic (it is only partially these things).

Crowley haphazardly clicks his fingers, and conjures up a leaning monstrosity that’s far more tinsel than tree.

“Oh, that is _horrendous_ ,” Aziraphale breathes, in the tone of a human witnessing something divine. “Well done, you.”

Crowley grins. “Ooh, and,” he says hurriedly, “for the _really_ stubborn ones, you could have pine needles shoot out and…sorry.” He takes a hasty drink, suddenly shy. “That one might be a bit much.”

Aziraphale pats his hand. “Not at all, my dear,” he says, thinking of a woman only yesterday who had the nerve to call the place her _favourite_ shop. “I’ll certainly consider it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy friday! be kind to yourself and have a great weekend <3


	12. Driving home (1967)

It’s freezing inside the telephone box, Crowley resorting to doing a little half-jog as he calls the bookshop. The traffic just outside London is a standard example of a hellish nightmare, and he doubts that he’ll make it in time for their dinner reservation.

It’s not the Ritz, not yet, but it’s still important (always important).

And, regardless, Crowley has always called or sent word in some way, whenever he’s going to be noticeably late. It’s one of their unspoken courtesies. He doesn’t want Aziraphale to worry.

Of course, Aziraphale puts up a good act of seeming not worried in the slightest, but Crowley can hear the relief in his tsking.

“Could you not… encourage the traffic along a bit?”

Crowley makes a series of vague not-quite words, not entirely sure how he can put, “I’m a bit tied up giving everyone miraculous escapes from black ice,” in a sufficiently demonic light.

But, Aziraphale must understand, because he hums and ha’s, and then says, “Oh, very well. You are a _menace_ ,” with incomparable warmth. “Mind how you go.”

When Crowley gets back in the Bentley, the radio is playing a new gameshow, one where the contestants speak about anything for one minute ‘without hesitation, repetition or deviation.’ He amuses himself with thinking about how they would fare on it (probably abysmally on all counts), when suddenly the traffic finally moves.

Crowley smiles, and indulges himself in uttering a quiet ‘thank you’ where no angels can hear. The tartan flask is no longer inside the car, but he fancies that he can feel the protection given with it throughout the drive home.


	13. Bleak midwinter (1860)

Crowley waits until they’ve both stormed their way out of the pub, until they’re back at the bookshop, and Aziraphale hangs up his cloak with an irritated flounce.

“I said,” Crowley seethes, unable to rein in his hissing, “to leave it _alone_.”

“Oh, really,” Aziraphale says, faux-conversationally, “you’re acting like I’m doing something completely scandalous—”

Crowley laughs, near hysterical. “It _is!_ I think tempting is the definition of scandalous when you’re a bloody _angel_.”

“You’re the one who insisted on the Arrangement in the first place.”

Crowley shakes his head in disbelief. “Not when Heaven’s breathing down your neck.”

Aziraphale scoffs, but Crowley can see a brief flare of panic in his eyes, before it’s masked over with indignation. He starts stacking pamphlets littering his desk—copies of _All the Year Round_ —and Crowley watches in silent exasperation, knowing it’s just so Aziraphale doesn’t have to look him in the eye.

“What would you have us do?” Aziraphale asks snippily. “Stop doing it completely?”

“Yes!” Crowley takes a breath, then adds, voice more level: “Yes. Just until things are a bit more—”

“Well, there’s the thing,” Aziraphale interrupts. “They’re not going to care if I did a temptation last week or last century, it’ll be exactly the same—”

“But, if we just lie low for—”

“What would be the point in that? Then we’ve risked it all for nothing.”

“Alright, fine.” Crowley feels the anger drain out of him, leaving him cold with guilt. “I should never have—”

“Now, that is categorically _not_ what I said. Crowley.” Aziraphale stops tidying and meets Crowley’s gaze head-on, suddenly quiet and sincere. “No matter the risk, you’ve never once shirked a miracle.”

“That’s…” Crowley looks away. “That’s different.”

“Ah, I see.” Aziraphale shakes his head, and smiles in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s the trouble with you and me. I don’t think it is at all.”


	14. Nostalgia (1971)

They hadn’t talked about it beforehand. Like many things, it was brought about by Aziraphale catching Crowley’s eyes in _just_ such a way, and Crowley, as always, had understood.

Now, they are standing in a garden, and Aziraphale admires the holly and ivy twined round a fountain, where once there would have been pews.

“Have I ever said,” he begins, with a little laugh in his voice (to keep everything else buried), “that I thought they had shot me already?”

Crowley gives him a strange look. His brow is furrowed. “That wouldn’t have happened.”

“Oh, I only… it just felt like something in a dream, you know.” Aziraphale’s fingers twitch, a nervous muscle memory returning; recalling an old hat in his hands. “What with you waltzing in like that. I started thinking, well, _do_ angels dream when they discorporate?” He laughs again, although he supposes it’s not all that funny.

Indeed, Crowley does not look amused. “I wouldn’t have let that happen,” he says, and his voice is somehow both gentle and fierce.

 _Unwavering faith_ , Aziraphale realises.

“Anyway.” Crowley kicks a stray stone. “Dunno if I _waltzed_ in.” He cracks a smile. “Not quite the entrance I was going for.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale says. He feels, quite suddenly, breathless. Is this the spot where he had stood thirty years ago, heart racing? Or perhaps, this is simply what comes from Crowley looking at him like that. “I don’t believe you could have done it any better.”


	15. Flurry (695 A.D.)

Seeing the humans’ rapturous smiles, their tentative steps as they walk across the frozen river, Crowley thinks that he understands how they must feel. He passes it off as a joke to Aziraphale, that this would be a _definite_ miracle: a demon walking on water.

“Would it, indeed,” Aziraphale chuckles. He has been holding onto Crowley’s wrist for the past ten minutes, and Crowley is certainly not going to point it out. “I’m afraid it won’t come to pass if you don’t— _Crowley!_ ”

“What?” Crowley says innocently, all while knowing that he has just very deliberately slipped.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but the reward is worth it; he steadies Crowley by the forearms, hovering right in front of him.

“Look… there, see, you simply have to get your balance. Oh.” Aziraphale rises slightly onto his tiptoes. “Close your eyes for a moment, my dear?”

“Close my eyes, _and_ get my balance?” Crowley says (of course, he closes them). “You’re really demanding, you know that—?”

There’s the gentlest of touches underneath his eyelashes. Crowley blinks his eyes open to find Aziraphale closer still, looking, for whatever reason, a little stunned.

“There was a snowflake,” Aziraphale says, and he gestures to Crowley’s face, almost touching. “Just there.”

“It…” Crowley swallows. “It would have melted.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale repeats. He’s smiling. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sound of Music: snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes-  
> Aziraphale: excuse me, I don’t appreciate a private moment being broadcast in a cinematographic show—


	16. Christmas number one (1975)

Eventually, Aziraphale says primly, “Well, I liked the operatic section.”

“That’s the spirit, angel.”

“Although it did go on for _much_ longer than—”

“Oi, it’s something new!”

“That it may be, but nevertheless…”

Crowley shrugs through an overtake. “S’good to know what’s culturally relevant.”

Aziraphale sniffs. “I have never cared for what is culturally relevant.”

“Wh—you! _Oh_ , you filthy liar—”

“My dear—”

“So, that _wasn’t_ you acting like you were in a bloody war-time spy film?”

“Oh, do just drive the car, please.”

A moment of silence. Crowley dutifully continues to drive the car.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Isn’t that the same song again?”

Crowley listens. “Hmm. Yeah, I dunno what that’s about.” He gestures with one hand at the radio. “Been doing that a lot with this one. Hang on, I’ll just…” He opens the glove compartment. “I’ve got a few cassettes in—” He takes a quick peek. “Since when do I have Swan Lake?”

Aziraphale’s ears are pink.

Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, he says, through what sounds suspiciously like a guitar riff, “I don’t remember Tchaikovsky sounding quite like this.”

Crowley pats the dashboard. Tchaikovsky’s _Bohemian Rhapsody_ plays on. “I’m sure it’s just a phase.”


	17. Mulled wine (2019)

his smile, sweet and gentle, curves against your collarbone. you feel his voice resonate, hear him tease, ‘you were ages and _ages_ , angel.’ it’s still taking some getting used to, that you both have all the room in the world to laugh. to breathe.

you turn your head, bump your noses together. softly. ‘aren’t you ever such a drama queen? anyway, i’m not serving you a shoddily prepared drink.’

he kisses the bare skin of your shoulder. sweet and gentle. ‘mm, standards.’

‘absolutely.’

‘in that case…’ he leans in, close, close, and whispers against your mouth (sweet and gentle), ‘you’re forgiven.’

you remember, aeons ago, watching him drink, wanting to taste everything from his lips alone. you remember when that thought would have been blasphemous.

but now, you kiss and kiss…and taste…

the warmth of—

…cardamom

cloves

star anise

and you know that this can only be

holy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wee attempt at ish-prose poetry! <3


	18. Candle (1941)

Crowley takes in the jagged edges of the envelope, where it would usually be meticulously sliced clean through with the letter opener.

“What is it?” he says.

Aziraphale shakes his head. He’s peering at the letter, holding it up close to a candle. In the dim light, his face looks almost grey. Crowley can see that pinched look around his eyes, weariness etched into the skin.

“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary,” Aziraphale says. His voice is deceptively light. Crowley can hear the bitterness lurking just beneath the surface. “Same as ever. Yes, Gabriel, no, Gabriel, three bags bloody full, Gabriel…”

Aziraphale trails off, and drops the letter. With a swift nudge to the air, Crowley ensures it doesn’t fall onto the flame.

“Look, we can… you know, we might be able to engineer some… stuff. In London, at least, we could give it a try. Y’know, people’ll just say they were damned lucky, Aziraphale, no-one will bat an eye. Tell Them…oh, I dunno, say you used your initiative, or something, They can hardly complain.”

(Even as he says it, Crowley knows it sounds weak. But, he also knows that they both need hope perhaps more than ever).

Aziraphale shakes his head again. “I’m afraid I can’t.” A lengthy pause. “I’ve been—well. Curtailed, somewhat. Ever since…”

Another silence. But, Crowley can read it, plain as day:

_It would take a real miracle for my friend and I to survive it._

“You never said,” Crowley says quietly.

Aziraphale scoffs, but there’s no residual bitterness now, only something gentle, and tired, and fond. “Yes, my dear, only because I knew you would look like _that_ , all…” He gestures. “All _injured_.”

“Angel, I’m s—”

“No,” Aziraphale says, sharply but not unkindly. “No, Crowley, I shan’t hear a word of it. You’re the reason I got out of that church in one piece.”

All at once, the air-raid siren splits through the city.

Aziraphale sighs. “I’d rather focus on what I _can_ control, for now.” He looks up briefly, then rests his hand on a nearby bookcase. “We’re safe here, Crowley. Please stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 18th December, 1941. In the U.K, 'National Service (No. 2) Act comes into effect: All men and women aged 18–60 are now liable to some form of national service, including military service for men under 51 and unmarried women between 20 and 30. The first military registration of 18½-year-olds takes place.' ([x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1941_in_the_United_Kingdom))


	19. A Christmas Carol (1843)

“Why do you have a door knocker?”

Aziraphale ducks behind the corner of a bookcase to hide a smile. Once sufficiently composed, he turns around, innocent reply at the ready: “It’s a perfectly ordinary thing for a door to have.”

Crowley sports the tell-tale beginning of a smirk, as he leans against a shelf. “Alright. Let me rephrase. Why do you have a door knocker shaped like a _face?_ ”

“It was getting far too cosy around here, dear boy. Soon people might attempt to buy things, you know.”

“I reckon a door knocker’s a little weak on spookiness, though.”

“Well, since you brought it up.” Aziraphale now hides his smile behind a book, hastily plucked from his desk. “If you could loiter a bit, it would be jolly helpful.”

Crowley straightens up, the epitome of affronted. “Wh—I! I do nothing _but_ loiter.”

“Yes, of course, dear. Very festive of you.”

And, no matter what Crowley might later say on the subject, Aziraphale knows that he is now witnessing a demonic pout. “Loitering’s an all year-round activity, actually.”

“Well, you’re the expert.”

“Anyway, you should probably wait a bit. For the door knocker, I mean.” Crowley nods at the people milling about outside. “’Till folk have got around to reading it.”

“Aha!” Aziraphale sets down the book triumphantly, unable to conceal his glee. “So you _have_ read it.”

“I…oh, no, angel, I did _not_ say that!”

*

> _Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact, that Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of London, even including—which is a bold word—the corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one thought on Marley, since his last mention of his seven years’ dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change—not a knocker, but Marley’s face._
> 
> _Marley’s face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Scrooge as Marley used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up on its ghostly forehead. The hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That, and its livid colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control, rather than a part of its own expression._
> 
> _As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again._

— _A Christmas Carol_ , published on the 19th of December 1843. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was repeatedly trying to get the quote in this bit, completely ignorant to end notes having word limits lol. Hope you're having a great weekend! <3


	20. Lasso the moon (1946)

Crowley pretends that ‘let’s go to the pictures’ is a temptation, that Aziraphale hasn’t been eyeing him all day, silently daring him to ask the question.

They both overcompensate in ensuring that two seats are empty, ending up with an entire row just for them. And, yes, Aziraphale feigns exasperation, but there’s a secret in the corner of his mouth, a hidden, pleased smile.

As the film begins, galaxies fill the screen. Crowley tilts towards Aziraphale and whispers, “Stephan’s Quintet,” pretending that he does not know its very first name, nor the creation of everything within it.

Aziraphale’s answer is his hand brushing against Crowley’s, lingering in the space between their seats. Eventually, he whispers back, “Gabriel is even annoying in fiction,” and Crowley knows it’s said just to make him laugh.

They stay put for the credits, as people leave in dribs and drabs. Crowley pays no attention to that, choosing to believe they had a private screening.

“Well-intentioned if woefully inaccurate in celestial matters,” is Aziraphale’s review.

Crowley grins, imagines all the new teasing he can now create ‘every time a bell rings.’ “Don’t think they’ll ever get it right, angel. Unless you make it in the film industry.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Oh, yes, I’ll get around to doing that.”

“Retirement plans, I’d say.”

It’s a flippant remark, but Aziraphale stills at hearing it. “Retirement,” he echoes quietly. The ghostly light of the projector flickers across his face, and his smile is wistful, like he’s heard the most fanciful pipe dream.

 _I’d give you that, if I could_ , Crowley thinks. _Anything. I’d move stars for you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >   
> _'Every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings.'_  
>  _'What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word, and I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey, that’s a pretty good idea. I’ll give you the moon, Mary.'_  
> 
> 
> —It's a Wonderful Life premiered on the 20th of December, 1946 -in New York but I'm saying the cinema Crowley goes to in London 'somehow' always gets the latest releases ;) 


	21. Star of wonder (1226)

he asks you what ‘those new little dots’ are. laughing, you guide his hand and count them out loud. ‘those _dots_ , angel,’ you tell him, ‘are saturn’s moons.’

there is quiet for a while. it’s not uncomfortable. you’re used to his silences; the careful, enthralled way he takes in the world. you watch as his eyes follow the night-sky. in the silence, the secret takes root within you again (an old, certain thought by now): that to see him is the real wonder.

he catches you looking. he smiles at you (brighter than any galaxy).

‘what are you thinking?’ he whispers.

‘who says i’m thinking?’

he huffs, still smiling, and nudges your bare foot. ‘your eyes are ever so expressive. it’s like the thought…dances across them. has no-one told you?’

(angel, you should know only your words are kind). ‘yes.’ the closeness of your bodies is hidden in the grass, but you can feel it. ‘you have, just now.’

‘oh.’

suddenly, to be seen by him is too much. you point upwards. ‘better keep watching, angel, before the clouds come.’

‘why?’ but he looks up all the same. ‘won’t it happen again?’

you think back to sketches, visions of planets aligning, the universe at your fingertips. you’ve never much cared for plans, great or otherwise. but, you suppose that there’s no harm in this one.

‘a good few centuries, i’d say. maybe longer, i don’t know.’ (not anymore).

the clouds drift across. in the dark, just for a moment, he finds your hand.

‘goodness,’ he says. ‘you don’t have any future engagements, do you?’

you snort. ‘not yet.’

‘then, we’ll be there, won't we? to see it all again.’

and that sounds like a promise, you think (you hope), for something much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *technically the great conjunction was on the 4th of March 1226, but hey, sometimes March is something that can feel so December-y ;)
> 
> I hope you got to see tonight's great conjunction in some way! The cloud cover here was abysmal, but I watched it on youtube :D take care <3


	22. Brandy (1962)

As soon as the door opens, Crowley realises he is far colder than he first thought. The warmth from the bookshop is searing; a numb, stinging sensation spreads across his face and fingertips.

Aziraphale’s hand, wrapped around his wrist, burns.

“For heaven’s…oh, _Crowley_ , you’re absolutely frozen, just how long were you—?”

“C-couldn’t see a light on, in the shop,” Crowley tries to explain, forcing the words past lips that might be shaking from the cold or something else entirely. “Had to wait. ‘Till you were back.”

“Couldn’t see a…?” Aziraphale trails off, and shakes his head. “My dear, the shop will always open to you.”

 _I know_ , Crowley thinks. He doesn’t mention how it’s difficult to have faith in that through a mind fogged with panic, the only sharp, clear thoughts being that _they’ve taken you, they’ve taken you myfaultmyfaultmyfault_. It’s no wonder the door, despite his desperate clawing, didn’t open, when faced with all that.

“Here,” Aziraphale says, and gently guides Crowley over to sit on the couch. In the time it takes for Crowley to blink, there’s a blanket tucked around his knees, and a drink in his hand. He takes a shaky sip through embarrassingly chattering teeth. Tea, rather generously spiked with brandy.

“Now, what’s all this about?”

“I think I—” Crowley stops. Swallows. “Aziraphale, I—I slipped up.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale says, voice level. “Go on?”

“I…I’m sorry, I mixed up some miracles with—oh, for fuck’s—with temptations. The locations, I just wasn’t—it was bloody careless, I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”

He expects (no, that’s not quite right… deserves) admonishment, but Aziraphale simply shakes his head. He doesn’t look afraid in the slightest. “Good grief, is that all?”

“What…?” Incredulous, Crowley takes a longer drink, and half-savours the burn spreading down to his chest. “What do you mean, is that _all_ , they’ll check, they’ll—”

“Crowley, neither of our sides are particularly au fait with paperwork,” Aziraphale says calmly. “We have time to fix it, don’t fret.”

“I’m not _fretting_. I’m—” _I just don’t know when they’ll check. We never know. And they’re getting faster. Agitated. Who knows why. Can’t you feel it?_

Crowley lets the brandy still his tongue, drown the words before they’re spoken. It wouldn’t do much good if they both were to panic.

Aziraphale is eyeing him with a shrewdness that says he is reading Crowley’s silence far too well. But, instead of starting up an anxious rant, he says, softly, “Dear, you look quite done in.”

“I’m fine.”

“Why don’t you rest a while, and I’ll draft something up?”

“No, I…” Crowley throws his glasses off, and tiredly presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “You shouldn’t… shouldn’t have to clean up my mistakes.”

“I don’t see why not,” Aziraphale says, both brisk and fond. “You’ve done it often enough on my account.” He sits beside Crowley on the couch, a notebook in hand, already wearing those ridiculous, unnecessary reading glasses.

Despite his attempts against it, the scratching sound of Aziraphale’s pen against paper gradually lulls Crowley to drowsiness. He’s half-aware of Aziraphale’s hand giving careful, soothing touches along his shoulders, encouraging him to lie down properly.

“I’ll…’ngel, I’ll need t’copy it out. M’handwritin’s different, ‘member.”

“In the morning, darling,” Aziraphale says, hushed, and Crowley knows they’ll both pretend he never said it. “You’re falling asleep.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Shh.”

Aziraphale’s hand settles in his hair, and the last of the panic ebbs away with the touch. Crowley’s last cognizant thought is that at least, for now, he no longer feels numb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 22nd of December, 1962: the beginning of 'The Big Freeze' in Britain. No frost-free nights until the 5th of March, 1963 [via Wikipedia].


	23. Scarf (2019)

Sometimes, it still catches Aziraphale by surprise; he can reach out, now, he can reach out and touch—

“Honestly,” he says, and fusses at Crowley’s lapels, revels in a lingering touch at the back of his neck. “What haphazard kind of way do you have this on?”

Crowley smiles, one lovely dimple appearing. It looks like he’s been caught a little off-guard, too, like he’s forgotten that there’s someone there to fuss over him.

“It’s the style, angel,” he says, close to laughter.

Aziraphale tuts, and unfurls the scarf. “That it may be, but it will hardly keep you warm.”

“Yeah, but it’s about the _look_ , isn’t it?”

“Ah, yes.” Aziraphale wraps the scarf around Crowley’s neck with gentle care. “You always were one to value fashion over practicality.”

Crowley snorts. “Oi, pot meet kettle. You’ve had your moments, too.”

“Minor transgressions compared to you.”

“Oh, charming.” Crowley bats Aziraphale’s hands away playfully. “And here I was thinking you liked the way I looked.”

“I do,” Aziraphale says, and finds he doesn’t want to tease, not about this. “I like every part of you.”

Crowley blinks. “I was kidding, angel,” he says, softly.

“Well, good to set the record straight,” Aziraphale says. And, although it’s incredibly unnecessary, he smooths out the fabric of the jacket across Crowley’s shoulders. “Are you warm enough—”

He’s cut off by a kiss, a tender thing, clumsy in joy. He can feel Crowley smile throughout it.

“Thank you,” Crowley murmurs.

And, perhaps it’s not a surprise, not really. It’s more that (finally, finally) they can feel, and touch, and say all the very many things that they have always longed for.


	24. Holidays (2014)

Crowley’s mobile starts to ring just as he’s sticking up the sheet displaying Aziraphale’s Festive (lack of) Opening Hours (“Despite the rumours I have heard of so-called ‘Boxing Day Sales’, I am not acknowledging their existence.”). Voice muffled around the Sellotape in between his teeth, Crowley half-shouts, “Angel! Could you get that for me?”

Aziraphale eyes the phone with great distrust. “Well, really,” he sniffs, “I’m not your secretary,” but takes the call anyway.

In the middle of smoothing down the paper, Crowley hears Aziraphale’s accent shift into heightened RP—Mr Cortese, then. “You sound like an old news-presenter,” Crowley had teased, back when they were first trialling their tutor voices.

“Ah, no,” Aziraphale says. “Mr Harrison and I had agreed on three weeks’ holiday, in fact.”

They hadn’t; it had been a fortnight, but Crowley senses Aziraphale’s encouraging miracle making it so.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale says. “I’ll certainly pass on your festive well-wishes to Anthony.”

Crowley feels a pleasant little lurch in his stomach at hearing _Anthony_. Oh, well. If the rest of the staff had suspicions about the nanny and gardener, they might as well think the tutors are at it, too.

“Yes, thank you, just a quiet Christmas with family. Oh, and the same to you. Pip pip!”

Aziraphale sets the phone down.

“Pip pip?” Crowley says.

Aziraphale doesn’t respond, instead taps just above his own mouth with a shy smile. “I believe some tape has gone astray, my dear. Oh, the new sign looks splendid!”

Crowley chuckles, and picks the tape off his lip. “Go outside and check it’s not squint,” he says, all while his heart skips a beat: _with_ _family_ ; _with family; with family._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas Eve! it genuinely means the world that people are reading and enjoying these, as they're such a source of joy for me! <3 thank you all so much, and hope you all have a lovely time. As per family tradition, I'm off to watch Elf ;) <3


	25. Glad tidings (1973)

Crowley makes his way through the park with an extra spring in his step, frost-laden grass crunching underfoot. It’s easy to spot Aziraphale, of course. If he’s being honest, it always has been, probably because Crowley has always been hoping to bump into him, almost since time began.

In this case, it’s easy because Aziraphale is at sitting at Their bench. He’s seemingly just watching the world go by, although Crowley has a suspicion that the usual chill has been taken off the lake water, as the ducks seem to be quacking away much more jovially.

From behind the bench, Crowley quickly taps Aziraphale on the shoulder and sits next to him, grinning at his gasp.

“Crowley! Goodness, you’re back early.”

While his voice still rises in question, he doesn’t ask it outright—just in case it’s bad news, Crowley supposes. His grin widens, relaxed and genuine, and he nudges Aziraphale triumphantly.

“M25 is due to be a hit,” Crowley says under his breath.

Aziraphale gasps again, but it’s more of a breathy, delighted giggle, really. “No! Oh, my dear, you didn’t use—”

“Your sketches? ‘Course I did, they’re works of art.” 

Aziraphale shakes his head, a weak attempt at looking scandalised as he smiles all the way through. “A great act of drunkenness, I should say.”

“Ah, well. You’ll be in the hall of fame, angel.”

“Shh!”

“And...” Oh, Crowley can’t stop the excitement overflowing in his voice. “Think I can stretch out the whole project for a while, actually. You know how London roadworks are.”

“Indeed. So, you’ll be... on leave for a while?”

“Mm-hmm.” Crowley clicks his fingers. “Fancy a Christmas lunch?”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “Only if you haven’t ousted some poor souls from their table.”

“Nah. S’not very festive, is it?”

Aziraphale’s brogues tap together in a happy, jaunty little rhythm. “Then, I think that shall do quite nicely.” He stands, and offers Crowley his arm. Crowley takes it.

“Happy Christmas, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers, and it’s a joyful sound, like bells ringing.

“Happy Christmas, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you have had/are having a lovely day! 🥰 I did have a festive-ficlet-related chuckle when I had an amaretto today 😉


	26. Lie-in (2019)

Crowley wakes to the sound of rain pattering against the windows. The curtains are drawn, shutting the grey outside, giving the bedroom a muted, cosy glow. Beside him, Aziraphale stirs, mumbles something incomprehensible—still half-dreaming, perhaps, until his eyes reluctantly crack open.

“Mm... not time t’get up, is it?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” Crowley replies quietly, voice like the soft rustle of bedsheets. “There’s no rules.”

Aziraphale reaches across, and his fingers slowly trace along the bridge of Crowley’s nose. “There were... oh, excuse me,” he yawns, sounding close to drifting off already. “There were always rules up... up...” He yawns again. “Oh, you know. But never...” His hand lightly touches Crowley’s cheek, then falls back onto the pillow. “Never felt that with you. Always could...” He sighs, sweet and drowsy. “Jus’ _be_.”

Crowley kisses him, and it’s a slow and soothing touch, a silent _I’m here_.Aziraphale’s talk about Heaven is usually rare and reticent, shared in hurried snatches of time, not for languid, half-asleep mornings. _He must feel so safe_ , Crowley thinks, touched beyond words. And then: _It was the same for me. Always, always._

“I love you,” Crowley says.

“Love you, too,” Aziraphale returns. His eyelids are heavy with sleep. He blinks slowly once... twice... 

When Aziraphale’s eyes remain closed, Crowley feels the almost ache of fondness deep within his own chest. He gently brushes the back of Aziraphale’s hand, ensures any dreams will be peaceful, filled with the knowledge that _you are loved, have always been loved, just as you are_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wishing you peace, love and rest <3


	27. Trim the tree (2013)

“I could be wrong,” Crowley says, as Aziraphale wrestles with the branches, “but this might be slightly out of your jurisdiction.” 

Breathless, Aziraphale explains, “The household wants one in every room.”

Crowley makes a face. “Seems a bit excessive.”

“I was hardly about to question it. Although...” Aziraphale pauses, and tidies up some stray fallen needles, unable to avoid how the tree looks rather squashed in the corner. “Mrs Dowling said to trim the tree, but—well, it was unclear if she meant just decorate, or... in the literal sense.”

Crowley briefly tilts his glasses down his nose. “Yeah, think you’ll have to do both.”

Aziraphale readies a miracle, but is quickly interrupted by Crowley’s sudden “No!”; the miracle is knocked off course, thrown from the top of the tree, down to rip a no doubt designer cushion on the couch.

“For fuck’s sake,” Crowley says, laughing. “Cut it from the trunk or it’ll look like a bloody bush!”

“Oh.”   


And, it could be because Aziraphale isn’t concentrating properly on his technique, or it could be because the sound of Crowley’s laughter is wonderful, and he dearly wants to hear more of it. Either way, he cuts the bottom of the tree on a slant, resulting in a very lopsided spectacle.

Crowley snorts. “Keep it like that, it has character.”

“Ah. Like us.”

They soon make quick work of it, separating the branches to hang up baubles, Crowley even skilfully scaling a ladder to reach the (far from bush-like) top of the tree.

“An angel or a star?” Aziraphale asks innocently.

Crowley promptly makes a very rude gesture. Aziraphale acts like he certainly does not know the meaning of it.

“I’m doing this in sodding _heels_ for you, Brother Francis. Absolute cheek.”

But Crowley is smiling, their tree reflecting in his glasses. Aziraphale pretends to not notice when the angel ornament looks remarkably familiar, but something within him soars at the sight. It’s hope, he realises, a glimmer of a chance that this whole delightful charade could _work_. 


	28. Gloves (1947)

‘you’re not walking home in this,’ he tells you for the third time. it’s not unprompted; you have just slipped (ice on the pavement) and, of course, he catches you just in time.

‘oh, honestly,’ you say, a pretence at exasperation. ‘you can hardly drive in this weather.’ 

his hand lingers around your forearm, and you want, you want...

‘the car can handle a bit of snow, angel.’

he steps away to open the passenger door, that should by all rights be frozen shut. you hide a smile behind your coat collar. here he is, your perfect gentleman.

inside the bentley, you wait (you’ve not admitted it yet, but it’s become a welcome, familiar place, as loved as the bookshop), watch as he brushes snow off the windows. 

isn’t it funny, you think. it’s rather a scene in miniature. you think of your heart. how you have had to stop it dead some years, freeze it into numb silence. and yet, somehow, his warmth always finds you. thaws you out. 

he sidles in, starts the ignition. you can hear his sharper intakes of breath, a little shocked from the cold. his hands drum on the steering wheel in an uneven waltz rhythm. you see the knuckles; the skin is red, snow melting within the cracks. _does it not hurt?_ you want to ask. _do you not think of it?_

you reach forward, think of softness and comfort, and all the things you want to give him. and then his hands are clothed in gloves.

he clears his throat. ‘you didn’t have to.’

_ oh, my dear, it’s never because i have to. i want, i want, i want... _

you don’t tell him. swallow down foolish thoughts. pretend this is the only way you can protect him. shelter from snow. at least—

at least, this water is not holy.


	29. in dulci jubilo (2019)

The sound of the brass band rings through the clean winter air, resonant and warm. It’s a triumphant delivery of _in dulci jubilo_.

“Don’t they sound lovely,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley glances at him, smirks. “Definitely weren’t that in tune when they started.”

“Oh, shush, I just... helped them along a bit. Anyway, I gather they won’t be here for much longer.” Aziraphale nods at the display next to the bandstand. “They’re doing a little tour of some churches next.”

Crowley watches as Aziraphale’s gaze turns more subdued, a shade contemplative. His mind scrabbles for something to say, quickly listing all the possible things Aziraphale might need to hear. _Do you miss...?_ But, it’s suddenly difficult to fill a silence, when for so long he’s been forced to say nothing.

Still. He has to try.

“We could go, if you like,” he says. He keeps his voice light and casual; _like being at the beach in bare feet; I’m fine, it hardly hurts, angel._ “Follow them around. Might need a break for some carols, mind, just so my feet don’t...”

He trails off. Aziraphale is staring at him, with a stunned half-smile on his face. _What are you looking at me like that for?_ Crowley thinks. _I’ve not even saved any books._

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, with that gentle cadence Crowley has come to realise means _I love you_. 

He feels the slightest nudge to reality, realises that the brass band feel abruptly compelled to stay longer at the park.

“What...?”

In answer, Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand. Holds it tight. “You should know by now, my dear,” he murmurs, as the first sweet notes of the encore play. “I’m precisely where I want to be. With you.”


	30. white snow red (537 A.D.)

The horse is a dark speck on the white horizon. Aziraphale can sense its distress in palpable waves, long before the terrified creature canters into view.

He raises his hand, and utters “Come here,” as calmly and authoritatively as he can. The horse draws close, and he feels its frantic whickers against his palm. “Where did you…?” Aziraphale trails off in realisation. He has only ever seen a horse as coal-black as this once before, accompanied by a very familiar, very reluctant rider.

The snowfall is thickening. He ought not to be here. In fact, he knows precisely where he should be at this very moment: in Heaven, giving a verbal report of his ‘success’ as a knight of the Round Table.

The horse whinnies, stomps one hoof in the snow repeatedly.

“He’s in trouble, isn’t he?” Aziraphale sighs. “Come on, then.” He hoists himself up onto the saddle, and squeezes his calves around the horse encouragingly. “Take me to him.”

He is led to a gathering snowbank, and is alarmed to find spots of scarlet in the snow, fading to a tarnished pink amongst the slush. He is barely aware of the moment he sees Crowley, lying prone on the ground; instinct and adrenaline already has him jumping off the horse, and running to him.

“You really don’t do things by halves, do you?” Aziraphale chastises through shallow breathing, willing his racing heart to calm. He sucks through his teeth at the sight of the blood from Crowley’s head, and the clearly broken wrist—he must’ve landed terribly when he fell. “There you are, nothing broken,” he soothes, and pushes through the resistance, undoing the past.

Crowley groans. When his eyes open, it takes a long moment for him to focus on Aziraphale. Then, another groan. “Oh, God.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitch. “Not quite, I’m afraid.”

Crowley slumps back in the snow, but Aziraphale can tell it’s just dramatics, and is buoyed by the sight of broken skin knitting itself back together. “This is bloody embarrassing.”

“Oh, don’t talk nonsense, dear fellow.” Aziraphale gestures at their surroundings. “It’s hardly the best weather for such travel.”

“Yeah, well.” Crowley sniffs, and sits up properly. “Oh, not so jumpy now, are you?” he says to the horse.

“Don’t blame the poor thing. He led me right to you.”

“Nah, wasn’t blaming.” Crowley rubs at his temple, and Aziraphale silently urges another blessing of _no pain_. “Reckon horses can probably sense…y’know. _Me_.”

“What rubbish. I wouldn’t have had such bother learning to ride if that were the case. It’ll just be the storm. If you’re…” (frightened) “… _jumpy_ , then he’s bound to be doubly so.”

Crowley still looks dubious. Aziraphale carefully helps him to his feet, guarding against any possible dizzy spells.

“Look.” Aziraphale guides Crowley’s hand to pat the horse’s forehead. “See, he just needed to…” And Aziraphale bites back the undoubtedly foolish _get to know you_.

“Huh.” Crowley smiles. He glances down at the snow, and Aziraphale hurriedly vanishes any traces of blood. “Listen, I… I owe you for this, Aziraphale.” His voice is suddenly low and serious.

Aziraphale tuts. He pushes back the reflex to snap _stop talking, there is no arrangement, there can never be, won’t you ever just be quiet (be safe)._ “You owe me nothing of the sort.”

“Angel—”

“No,” Aziraphale says firmly, and blocks out any thoughts of the trouble he’ll be in for a missed report. “I shan’t hear another word.”

He waits until Crowley is riding away, sends the blessing of safe, swift travels on the wind. He does not know how to put it into words, that the talk of being _owed_ makes him think of… of detached things, clinical talk of duty and _should dos_. The act of helping Crowley will never belong to that world, he thinks; it will never be a begrudged obligation. Far from it.


	31. we’ll conspire (2018/19)

They go up to the roof to hear the bells. Several glasses of champagne ensure that they don’t really feel the cold. It’s then that Crowley senses the change, just as Big Ben should be striking midnight—but the first chime does not come.

Crowley frowns, and looks at the streets below: people are standing like statues, frozen mid-cheer.

And, Aziraphale is clutching his drink so tightly the glass threatens to shatter.

“What the h—what are you doing?” Crowley hisses.

Aziraphale’s eyes are wide in panic. “We need more time!”

“Angel, stop, they’ll—” Crowley glances up to the sky warily, then below. “They’ll notice!”

“But, it’s this year, this year—”

“He’s not eleven yet.”

“Oh, my dear—”

“Shh, listen.” Crowley takes the glass off Aziraphale, feels how he’s shaking with the effort to turn back the clock. “We’re not going to fix anything like this.”

“But…” Aziraphale clutches Crowley’s hands tightly, still tipsy enough to be honest. “We have to stop it.”

“We will,” Crowley vows.

“No, but, you see…” Aziraphale swallows. “I’m… I’m—”

“I’m scared too,” Crowley says.

“No, that’s not—I—when the time comes, I know I’ll be such a coward—”

“ _No_.” Crowley squeezes Aziraphale’s hands, feels some heavenly power flee towards him. Angelic and demonic powers shouldn’t be drawn to one another like magnets. And, yet… “You’re so brave—”

“Promise me you won’t give up,” Aziraphale whispers. “Promise me.”

(Don’t give up on _me_ ).

“I promise,” Crowley vows. “We’ll stop it. Together.”

He beckons the last of Aziraphale’s power, guiding it into some locked, secret part of him. Time will stand still, but only as a last resort, only when he feels the end of everything has come.

The world ripples around them. The bells start to chime, a great, sonorous sound. But, it is somehow not loud enough to drown out Aziraphale’s desperate, “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading, and spending a part of your December 'with' me. Happy Hogmany! I wish you all the ineffable loveliness in the world for 2021 <3 I’m so looking forward to sharing more moments and stories with this lovely pair 🥰


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